What the Heart Needs
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: War wounds and childhood memories plague an older Harry Potter. Will Severus Snape be able to help? Warning: slash and self-abuse
1. Default Chapter

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Author's Note: This story takes place when Harry is an adult. There are elements of abuse in this story. This is also a HP/SS piece. It's already finished and posted elsewhere, so you don't have to worry about long delays between posting. 

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter & co. belong to J.K. Rowling, and I'm an unemployed soon-to-be grad student, so please don't sue. 

Review: And if you feel the need to flame for OOCness or poor syntax, grammar, major plot flaws, general ickyness &ct, please hold off until…March 1. Sorry, family medical tragedy has me preoccupied and a little unwilling to experience criticism, constructive or otherwise, but God willing everything will be fine by March 1. So, yeah.

He can't remember why he started it. Though he knows the thoughts that were likely running through his head at the time. The guilt. Yes, he knows the guilt. But he can't think back to the exact point when cutting seemed a good idea to him. Probably because he knew, all along, that was the most idiotic thing for him to do, the most useless, and wasn't being useless what got him to that point in the first place? Useless. Waste of space, education, love, food, air. He heard it all the time really. From family. From ghosts of friends. And others too, but he can't think about him right now. He's busy looking at his arm, the thin lines, the only time he ever looks beautiful, with that red slowly bleeding into white, like a bloom in the snow. And it's not as if what he is doing is dangerous. That's not just a statement based on comparative basis with his yearly brushes with death. He simply doesn't cut deep. If he were in the Muggle world, he wouldn't even need a bandage for the slight scratches he carves into his body on Thursday nights. And no, he's not suicidal. Well, he realizes that if he is caught he's as good as dead, but that's not quite the same thing, is it?

He sighs as he fixes the sleeve of his robe. The beauty never lasts, at least on him. No permanent marks. He can't even afford to show off the blood, like he occasionally did when he was younger, delighting in coming up with excuses. Paper cuts, tie pins, picture frames, some bastard left broken glass in the bathroom and I just happened to be rolling around on the floor at the time. He gave up the charade within a few months, disheartened by the lack of response. And he knew that it wasn't a cry for help, not really, so why bother making his hobby public? He believes self-abuse to be a private avocation, thank you very much. One of the reasons he fell out with Neville in his seventh-year actually, finally tired of watching the boy torture himself day after day by trying to live up to Severus's expectations of him. It was humiliating for Neville, and Harry, being empathetic to emotional war wounds, couldn't stand it any more. He stepped away, handing the reins of the "Bolster Longbottom's Self-Esteem and Academic Record" over to Hermione, who grudgingly accepted command. He felt for Hermione, he really did. She had been tutoring nearly a dozen students that last year and had practically sobbed with disappointment when Harry gave up on his promise to lighten her load. But, at the time, Harry didn't have room for that kind of guilt in his life, so he moved on rather quickly. Still, that week, he cut more than his forearms, a tribute.

That was years ago. He hasn't spoken to Hermione in weeks and he ought to call, touch base. She's working…he's not even sure. She changes jobs every few months, has been since they finished at Hogwarts four years ago, trying to experience every occupation that was open to her before settling on a career. Harry thinks she's back at the Ministry now, but he can't be sure. He'll owl. Of course he will. If he doesn't, a howler will shout at him, probably in the Great Hall, "Harold James Potter! Why haven't you written me? Are you alive and well?" Or something to that effect, but the second name will definitely make an appearance, to maximize his shame. 

Harry adjusts his robes for the third and final time before entering the hall and sitting at his seat at the head table. He silently thanks Minerva again for seating him next to Filius. Harry never reached the six-foot mark, hovering like a scared child at 5'9", and the contrast against Flitwick comforted him. Maybe he could ask the Charms professor if he too was raised in a cupboard under the stairs. It could become a drunken joke, something to laugh about at holidays, pointing out short-statured students at the sorting ceremony, saying, "He's a broom closet man, but she, she's _definitely_ a garden shed." Yes, Harry thinks he would enjoy trivializing his childhood embarrassment. But perhaps not with Flitwick. He might be sensitive about his lack of altitude, and Harry enjoyed the friendship he had with the diminutive professor. What he needs is someone with a drier sense of humor.

"Back from another round with the knife?" Snape asks sneers goads at his right. Was that supposed to be a joke?

Oh, yes, Harry has just come from a tutorial with the seventh-years on self-defense without magical aid. Snape's remark has nothing to do with the Thursday evening tradition.

"We're still on baseball bats, actually," Harry answers, as he pours one capsule of muscle relaxant into his pumpkin juice, the only physical reminder of his 5 minute eternal cringe under the Cruciatus curse during the Hogsmeade battle three years ago. He is prone to seizing, even now, but everyone agreed that it _should_ have been a lot worse. Life in the vegetable patch worse. 

"Baseball?" Flitwick asks. "I was given to understand that that is an American sport."

"Yes, but baseball bats are Scottish weapons," Snape answers for him. Harry knows that the Potions master is correct, if unoriginal. Ever since the riot during the World Cup of '99, academic journals have been cramming psychological studies of mob mentality, along with examples from Muggle football, down the learned public's collective throat. Harry often marvels at said throat's lack of gag reflex. If only he were so lucky, he supposes he'd be more popular.

"Severus, do you know if the school's supply of wormwood is sturdy enough to withstand my taking about three ounces worth? I've just run out."

"Are you planning to administer Living Death to the whole of Hogwarts and a good portion of Hogsmeade beside?" Snape asks, eyebrows done up in a mockery of concern. Of course, Harry knows that Snape is never concerned about _anything_ to do with Harry.

"No," Harry answers. He shouldn't be so stubborn. He should submit himself, because really, they'd all see how broken he is if he doesn't get that wormwood by morning, but it's Thursday evening and Harry is very happy for himself and Snape doesn't have to take that away from him today. He can wait.

"Come to my office after dinner," Snape grunts. Harry nods, wonders if that was a yes or no, and continues to eat. Some of his new first-years who invariably appoint themselves as The Harry Potter's guardian have kindly told him that he looks emaciated. Well, they said he looks sick awful thin. Harry knows the cause. It's not a lack of food or sleep, only health. The wormwood is stripping years off his life, but he imagines that the children wouldn't care to know this. So he tells them it's a simple cold. Except that one time, last year, when he told Annie Butler that he was a werewolf, just after the change. He apologized once he decided that Remus probably wouldn't have laughed.


	2. 2

"You do realize that this costs 54 galleons per ounce for a reason?" Snape asks him as he watches Harry scoop the fine powder into the vial he brought with him. Harry ignores the bait, but Snape continues anyway.

"And that reason is that no _legal_ potion requires more than an ounce."

"It's perfectly legal," Harry answers. "Just not very healthy."

"What is it for?" Snape persists.

"Muscle relaxant." Snape merely laughs, the only man Harry knows, living, that can fill his laughs with such derision.

"You can't be serious," Snape scowls. "First of all, ingesting that much wormwood will kill you, unless you're brewing a batch that will last a decade. Secondly, no mediwizard in his right mind would approve of taking any variant of muscle relaxant that contains wormwood. Lastly, there are several potions that would be up to task without such potentially lethal side effects."

"Thank you for the wormwood, Professor, but I have to leave now," Harry answers. He's put this off too long this time, a subconscious gamble with his life that will be lost if he doesn't begin brewing his potion within the next five minutes. He needs a dose in an hour. 

"Don't be-" Snape begins, but Harry's already pushed past him on his way out.

The potion without a name, for no one bothered to waste their imagination on a brew which did little good and not enough harm, is simmering, as is Harry as he tries to compose a letter to Hermione, while ignoring the knowledge that Snape is minutes away from his door. Harry wonders if he should be concerned that he knows Snape well enough to be certain that the professor will not stand for any mystery and intrigue, while he knows Hermione so little that writing a simple missive is next to impossible. "Come in," he calls, and sure enough, Snape barges into the room, though Harry doubts his permission was heard or required.

"What are you up to, Potter?" Snape asks, eyes narrowing at the gently rolling goo in the cauldron.

"Trying to write a letter to Hermione," Harry mutters, scribbling down a few words, knowing his time is limited before…

"Potter! I demand to know what you are brewing!" Snape bellows.

"Always so melodramatic," Harry sighs, moving away from the writing desk to stir the potion. "I've already told you, this is a muscle relaxant."

"Potter-"

"Look, I know you're not ignorant of my condition. I'm sorry if I was abrupt with you earlier, but I needed to start this. I let myself run out and I need another dose in…7 minutes."

"You expect me to believe that you ingest this much wormwood, twice a day?" Snape asks, holding up one of the capsules that Harry will fill in moments.

"No, twelve doses a day. I simply take six doses at nine, so I don't have to wake up every two hours."

"And how much wormwood is that, a day?"

"Three-quarters of an ounce. Believe me, it eats up my paycheck," Harry smiles ruefully. He doesn't mention the great reserve that is the Potter fortune. Though, at this rate, he will have to visit Gringotts soon to prepare for the summer holidays.

"This is absurd. Your heart cannot take it," Snape growls, and Harry notices that his eyes keep swinging to the clock on the wall. Four minutes.

"It is my _heart_ that requires it," Harry snaps, angry in the knowledge that Snape is about to ask for proof, and that he is more than willing to give it. Harry had thought he was not suicidal. "If I don't take this, every muscle in my body will contract, including my heart, and will not relax until I am dead. Now please, hand me that capsule."

Harry is shocked when Snape complies, but he's not surprised that the older man continues to argue.

"There are less drastic measures that can be taken. A milder relaxant, with HeartEaze, surely, would-"

"No, it wouldn't," Harry answers. Two minutes.

"How do you know?" Snape snarls.

"Five heart attacks, that's how. Now, would you please leave, I'm tired and I'd like to finish this letter," Harry concludes lamely, trying to save himself. He knows. He knows that if Snape so much as _hints_ at it, he'll do it. He won't care, he'll just do it.

"That's not on your medical reports," Snape sneers, obviously not caring that he should never have seen such confidential files. "Nor is there any mention of substance abuse, but I'm beginning to suspect that the savior of the world has a dirty little secret."

Harry is not offended. He can't be, when he saw it coming. Also, isn't there some truth to that accusation? He does, or rather did, have a secret. If everyone knew that he was a potion away from death's door every two hours, he'd be mourned for the rest of his life. So no, Harry's pride is not wounded, but that doesn't keep him from shrugging, looking at the clock, silently pointing out to Snape that there are 20 seconds left, gesturing towards the sofa, and sitting down at his desk, crossing his arms as if to say, "So there."

And then, there it is. Rigor mortis, but without the death. At least for the first minute. Strained silence, blinding pain as his body is encased in one endless cramp, and for a moment, he can see Snape's face, the intense scrutiny of a split second as the professor decides whether Harry is faking it or not. And then, more pain. Snape is trying to pry open Harry's jaw, but of course, that won't work. Neither will any charms to immobilize him, stupefy him into slackness. There's nothing Snape can do, so he gives in to a long ago fantasy. He punches Harry with all the pent-up rage a former spy can possess, dislocating his jaw. Heedless of the muscles he knows he's ripping into, Snape claws his way into Harry's mouth and pours a dose of the potion down his mouth, rubbing at his throat to aid swallowing. But it's been too long and Harry's heart won't start again on it's own. So Snape uses his wand to electrocute the wretch, twice, three times, before tossing wand aside and pounding on Harry's chest. Once is enough, and Harry comes back in a near-silent sigh.

"Don't move," Snape whispers. "I'll get Poppy."

"No," Harry groans, the effect of it all crashing in on him with every hard-won heartbeat. "Potions, in the medicine cabinet," he continues, though his attempt to gesture towards the bathroom fails, as does truly coherent speech, his jaw ripped to shreds.

Snape rushes to get them, coming back with two bottles of potions and a glass of water, and a soft-spoken but no less vehement tirade. "Fool. You knew what would happen and you let it come anyway," he hisses, helping Harry back into the chair that he had slid out of. The potions that Harry drinks restore his jaw, knowledge gained through experience. But he can take nothing for the pain. It would only react poorly with the wormwood.

"I did tell you, Professor," Harry sighs. "Will you help me to my bed?"

Snape shoulders Harry into the bedroom, one more spartan than he had expected from the young man. "Do you need help getting undressed?" he asks, trying to keep his voice at its most clinical.

"Yes, please," Harry answers. "How many doses?"

"Just the one. I'll bring back the others in a moment."

Harry nods motionlessly, covers his face motionlessly after Snape strips him of his robes and sees the lines, no longer so red as to be beautiful. Only red enough to be pathetically weak. Snape says nothing though, only removes Harry's shoes and moves out into the living room to collect more potion.

"Will you be alright?" Snape asks, once Harry has consumed the last dose.

"Mmm," is all Harry can say.

"I'll stay?" Snape offers. No guilt of course. Of Course.

"You don't-"

"I'll stay," he repeats, firmly, settled, and he transfigures a chair in the bedroom into a cot. He stays.

Harry wakes up to find Snape looming over him, staring at the fast-fading marks on his arms.

"Why?" Snape asks. Harry can't help but laugh. No how are you, good morning, sleep well, just right to the big questions.

"I find it aesthetically pleasing," Harry answers around a yawn and groan as he tests his muscles.

"And I suppose the weight loss is to do with the potion?" Snape continues.

"Yes. I'm not starving myself."

"Who was it that devised the potion for you?"

"Gustave, at St. Mungo's," Harry answers, sitting up and slowly stretching his limbs. Unfortunately, he can't stretch his heart. And there is more pain in his chest than the last few times. "What did you do to revive me? I feel…caved in."

"Shocks at first. Then manual resuscitation," Snape answers.

"No mouth to mouth I hope."

Snape simply sneers. Then scowls.

"I would have been concerned about the wormwood residue on my lips," Harry clarifies, not quite sure why he has to make it clear that the image of having Snape's lips on his own is not an unpleasant one.

"There would have been no worry, it never touched your lips. How is your jaw, by the way?"

"Fine. Tender, maybe, but those potions work well. You probably made them."

"So Poppy knows?"

"No. Minerva does, though not all of the gruesome details and certainly not the long-term effects of the potion. But yes, she understands that my life hinges on medication," Harry answers.

"You might have told me," Snape says suddenly, a hint of petulance in his voice that does not correspond with the coldness in his eyes.

"How readily would you admit your weaknesses to me?" Harry counters. 

"I wouldn't consider this a weakness. I may be able to help."

"Perhaps. Though it would be a risk, testing out new potions, wouldn't it?"

"And that stunt you pulled last night wasn't risky?" Snape barks. "You do realize you were willing to die, just to prove me wrong?"

"I was confident that you'd save me," Harry shrugs. He understands that those closely guarded weaknesses are making themselves known in abundance during this short conversation. "And what would you consider a weakness?"

"I don't know," Snape answers with a smirk. "The propensity for putting yourself in danger?"

"Ah, that's nothing. Ask me about my sex life sometime," Harry laughs.

"You have a sex life?"

"Well, not at the moment. But I have practiced for it."

"I suppose you want me to ask how?"

"Well I'm certainly in no mood to show you," Harry answers, enjoying the game.

"So disappointing," Snape replies, his eyes smiling.

"I know," Harry sighs. "Do you know how a prepared myself for oral sex?"

"Please don't say you used your wand."

"No, I'm not that bad."

"Banana?"

"Safety razor," Harry grins. He's satisfied to see that Snape is horrified.

"Potter, what happened to you?" Snape asks, and suddenly this is a real conversation. One that Harry is in no condition to participate in.

"I appreciate all the help, Professor, but I need to take another dose soon and I'm sure we both have classes this morning."

"Of course," Snape answers, nodding goodbye and sweeping out of the room.


	3. 3

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A/N: Warning for this chapter is that there are some disturbing images of child abuse. This section is also rather short. Sorry J 

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Also: thanks for the nice reviews. There are a few specific questions I suppose I can clear up, since you all were very kind and didn't slam my story (by the way, feel free to flame now I guess…never mind, wait until Friday. Don't want to jinx my dad). To **MarsIsBrightTonight**, the muscle relaxant that Harry takes at dinner is the same wormwood-based potion that he has to take in order to live. Perhaps that one sentence about its lack of name was confusing? I was basically saying that it's a terrible _medicine_ because it has such harmful side effects, and it _can't be_ a terrible poison because the side effects aren't harmful enough…so no one cares about it except Harry. To **Catspook**, you're right, 5'9" _isn't_ short at all. Sometimes my perspective gets all messed up, having all tall men in my family. I'm used to thinking that anyone shorter than me is short, simply because my dad and co. are 6'4"ish. 

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On with the show…

Harry really does remember what happened to him to make him like this. He knows when it was he started hurting himself, and it was long before the cutting started. Long before he knew he was a wizard, and long before he realized that he was meant to be the model of a savior, Harry had taken to pain like Dudley took to sweets, like Petunia took to gossip, like Vernon took to abusive emotional violence. True, Vernon never hit Harry, apart from the occasional smack when he was young, the harsh grip on his hair or ears when he was old enough to fight back. But Vernon Dursley was by no means a paragon of the loving uncle to Harry. Dark cupboards are places that hold filth, garbage, pests, and every embarrassing relic of family life that you can't just throw away, no matter how much you'd like to. That Harry was locked in a cupboard for years was proof enough for him, at the age of six, that he must have done something horrible to his uncle in order to drive him to treat a human being, a child, like rubbish. 

As he grew older, Harry thankfully learned to value himself more for who he was, rather than what Vernon treated him like, but at six, Harry had created a space within him where he would go for the sole purpose of trying to comprehend what his great sin was. This pocket, which Harry liked to think of as being two inches to the left of his heart, was to become the home of every ounce of guilt that he would ever feel. Six-year-old Harry Potter, without evidence of any crime, wrote himself a past sin, which he edited day to day. Sometimes, it was a minor trespass, like breaking a favorite toy of his uncle's or cousin's. Sometimes, it was infinitely worse. For five months, six-year-old Harry Potter was convinced that he had killed someone when he was a baby. He couldn't say whom, but he was sure that he had killed someone very important in the world. Someone that Vernon would have looked up to, maybe even loved.

Then school came, new ideas came to young Harry, new notions of guilt and of ways to atone. With every year, and every punishment at the hands and words of his uncle, Harry's haven for guilt grew larger, before finally engulfing his heart when he was nine. That was the year of the school trip to the Observatory and its neighboring park. Harry was enthralled by the light show of stars in the auditorium, and he saw future friends and family in the slides of constellations. And then there was fresh air and light as the children were set loose in the park, running and laughing with abandon, rushing the sweets stand, and Harry, watching those fountains of soda, filled himself on free water and pretended that it was something more. Very soon, he was running to the restroom in a race against time and embarrassment. Walking through the door, the first thing he saw was the incredibly happy euphoric content face of an older man, one that had the stature of Vernon Dursley. The next thing Harry saw was the teenager on his knees before the older man, not looking happy at all. Harry stared, learning the act by his swallowed -up heart, until the older man opened his eyes and saw him. Harry ran then, hid around the corner of the pavilion until he saw the man leave, and then he went back in to relieve his bladder of that uncomfortable pressure. The teenager was still there, pushing some crumpled pound notes into his pocket and looking at Harry without a hint of shame, guilt, anger or embarrassment in his eyes. It was only a very measuring gaze.

"Is it hard, to do that?" Harry asked.

"Not very," the young man shrugged, going to the sink and scooping some water into his mouth, slushing it about and spitting into the drain. Harry watched him repeat this several times and was about to go into the stall when the young man laughed, said, "Just watch the teeth," and left.

When Harry went back to Privet Drive that Thursday, he was still thinking about the look on that older man's face. He'd never seen Vernon that happy, not even when he did well on the golf course. Not even when Dudley brought home good reports from school. Not even when Petunia's garden won in competition. Harry had been thinking about ways to please his uncle, to make it up to him, whatever it was that he had done. Until that morning, Harry was torn between taking on even more chores and never coming out of his cupboard again, but that man looked so _happy_. And the other had said it wasn't hard. Maybe…

But Vernon wasn't at all pleased that night, when Harry had come to him in the family room, after Petunia had gone up to bed. He wasn't pleased when Harry got down on his knees, pulled at the man's pants. He was shocked enough to do nothing, but he definitely was not pleased when Harry wrapped his young mouth around him, trying to watch the teeth. Perhaps he hadn't watched his teeth carefully enough, because Vernon didn't even look a little bit happy when he roughly pushed Harry away, and then followed that with the only real physical abuse that Harry would ever suffer in that house, a few punches, all silent because Petunia was asleep.

Harry didn't leave his cupboard for a month. This was his atonement, and Vernon accepted that, calling the school with a story of swollen tonsils. 

And then, Harry gave up on wanting to please Vernon. He grew older and tried to comply with his family's demands, but never again for _them_. He did it out of habit and the hope that he would become a man one day and wouldn't have to worry about Vernon Dursley ever again. And so what if that heart of guilt within him never left? Even now, when Harry is twenty-two years old and has come to realize that he owes nothing to his uncle, he knows that he will never _not_ feel guilty, if only for the act of a nine-year-old boy that was too eager to make things right.


	4. 4

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A/N: Back to your regularly scheduled program. IE, no more flashback.

Harry feels remarkably well as he finishes his day's last class. It is as if his heart had never stopped, as if his jaw had never been torn away from him in a moment of darkness. He feels so well that he breaks tradition, goes to the staff bathroom, and paints himself beautiful again with his dulling pocket knife, a present from Sirius which he has kept all these years. Harry feels so well that he does not let the eyes watching him stop him. At first, when he looks up, he thinks that it is only a mirror, teasing him again, but it's Professor Snape, face clouded in some emotion. Harry chooses to read it as annoyance.

"Feeling better, I see," Snape sneers.

"Much, thank you," Harry answers, returning his knife to the folds of his robes. "Did the shipment reach your store room?" Harry had ordered enough wormwood from the Hogsmeade apothecary to replenish what he had taken the night before.

"Yes, it did," Snape answers. "I see there is no call for concern," he continues, gesturing at Harry's cuts. "They don't even deserve to be called 'superficial'."

"I'm glad we're in agreement on this," Harry laughs, not nervously, but not happily either. "I wouldn't want to cause any concern."

"It does look quite nice," Snape continues, moving closer to Harry, as if to touch, or smell. "You are so very pale, for someone who wastes his time on the pitch every weekend."

"Maybe that's the wormwood too," Harry answers, unnerved by the length of this conversation, if not the subject and tone. Snape and he are no longer enemies, if they ever had been, but they are by no means friends. Not even bitter ones.

"About that, would you consider giving me the formula for the potion you are taking? I'd like to work on it."

"I'll bring it to your office after dinner, if you'd like. Don't trust Gustave?"

"Come to my rooms instead," Snape suggests. "I'll need to refer to some texts, I'm sure. And Augie Gustave is a talented Potions Master, but everyone has his or her strengths and weaknesses. He may have missed something."

Harry finds Snape in his rooms an hour later, as planned. He's been here before, for various reasons, but never long enough to warrant comfort. The sitting room is warmer than Harry's, both in climate and color, surprisingly enough. Where Harry's rooms are decorated in cool blues and greens, black and white, Snape's has an Oriental tone, warm autumnal colors matching the spines of well-loved books that line the walls. The fireplace is crackling away, no doubt struggling to chisel at Snape's ever-cool exterior. The Potions Master is pulling books from the shelves, stacking them on a large oak desk against the wall, separating references to wormwood from texts on diseases of the muscles, and diseases of the heart. There is a fourth pile there, smaller than the others, and Harry can only assume, with no small amount of amusement, that these books have something to do with psychological disorders. Harry briefly wonders where Snape stores his heart of guilt, before he goes farther into the room and hands Snape both the instructions for brewing the potion and a sample dose for chemical analysis.

"I'm impressed," Snape says, after reading the scroll Harry has given him. "This looks…challenging."

"I suppose I have compelling motivation not to fail," Harry answers. "No matter what you might think," he adds, looking pointedly to one of the books on the desk, the one about self-abuse and suicide.

"Yes, a perfectly healthy man often cuts himself for pleasure," Snape answers, but without cruelty, this one time.

"So where are your scars?" Harry asks. Sometimes he convinces himself that it is within his rights to be childish.

Snape answers by rolling up his sleeve, but all that is there is the Dark Mark, pale on pale.

"Was that a cosmetic decision?" Harry asked, clinging to levity. There is something about Severus Snape that always draws Harry to truth, no matter how painful.

"No."

"Then what makes you think you can help me?" Harry snarls. "This isn't suicidal. This isn't masochistic. This isn't exhibitionist. It's not even painful, so it's not a problem."

"No pain equals no problem, does it?" Snape laughs. There's the cruelty.

"It does in this situation," Harry answers. "I'll accept your help on my medical condition, but keep your fucking hands OFF MY SOUL!"

"I'm not about to patch you up only for you to break yourself," Snape answers, whispers really, deadly deadly. Harry almost swears he's speaking parseltongue. 

"Go to hell," Harry sighs, leaving Snape's rooms before he says anything more damning.


	5. 5

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Aithilin, the very first person to flame one of my stories. ****

To the people who wrote nice reviews, thank you. And to anyone who was planning on holding back criticism until the tentative March 1 deadline I gave, you may as well hit me with it now. Things at home have worked out better than I prayed J Ok, enough pontificating, here's the next chapter.

Three months later and Harry is no longer poisoning himself with wormwood. It is apparent that Gustave did indeed miss something, a less toxic derivative of the Draught of Living Death, one which relies on asphodel, potassium, and several numbing agents. But it seems that Severus Snape is not done studying Harry Potter. In fact, he's staring at him right now, as Harry resignedly stares back and cuts into his arm, deeper than usual for the anger of becoming a spectacle. Or rather, a bigger one.

"Do you enjoy this, Severus?" Harry asks, inflicting just as much unwanted intimacy on the Professor in return.

"Not particularly, no," the older man answers with an arrogant, ironic smile. "Do you, Harry?"

"I don't like you watching," Harry responds, turning his blade. Sometimes he carves words into his flesh, without realizing it. Now, he realizes that he is writing with the knife. In seconds, it will read, "Hello."

"Do you enjoy it when it's private?" Snape persists.

"Yes," Harry answers, quickly.

"For the pain?"

"It doesn't hurt."

"For the sensation?"

"You'll have to be more specific, Severus," Harry teased. "And you aren't asking the right questions, at least according to that mountain of knowledge concerning neurosis which is located in your study. You say, 'Harry, do you wish to die? Harry, do you enjoy the thrill of being caught? Harry, do you see yourself as a failure? Harry, do you feel alone? Feel sad? Feel guilty?' Or you can go deeper, if you'd prefer. 'Harry, do you have abandonment issues, being an orphan and all? Harry, do you still feel traumatized by the war? Harry, do you sleep at night, with all the nightmares of death and torture that you must have? Harry, were you mistreated as a child? Emotionally? Sexually? Harry, were you raped when you were a baby?' Any of these questions could prove relevant, Severus. And I know you're a thorough man, Severus, but I really should be going. As should you. Dinner is in five minutes, and you really should consider putting on a few pounds, Severus. You look all skin and bone." Harry waves his bleeding "Hello" at Severus before heading to the door.

"Harry, were you raped when you were a child?" Severus asks, supplying his own answers to all of the other possible questions, save this one, this one which he is afraid of asking, afraid of hearing the answer. Harry can see the fear, buried under black eyes. No, they're darker than that, like dried blood really. Harry hears the question and can't help but laugh.

"Severus, I'm surprised. All of the monsters you must have met in your day, and you don't know the answer to that one? I was never raped. I was the rapist."

The looks Professor Snape is giving Harry throughout dinner in the Great Hall are making him uncomfortable. Actually, they are making him half-hard, but that is uncomfortable as well, especially while he talks to Professor Flitwick about Cheering Charms, which just happen to be on the dear professor's mind of late. It seems that Snape has been a busy boy. And that he is getting desperate, if he's taken to consulting any field other than potions and amateur psychology to fix Harry. As Harry patiently plays audience to Flitwick's lecture, he quietly taps S.O.S with his fingers against the table. A barely audible snort assures him that Snape has taken notice. Harry takes notice that Snape is wearing aftershave today. It smells good. Snape must have run down to his rooms after their discussion, and put the scent on before the meal began. Harry understands what he's doing. He's trying to turn the course of inquiry towards sex by initiating a relationship focused on lust. He's going to try to draw Harry out of what he deems as a delusion about being a rapist by establishing a healthy, adult sexual relationship between two consenting parties. Either that or he has a hot date after dinner. Harry smiles at this notion. Severus Snape, lovesick by candlelight. 

Inevitably, Snape shows up at Harry's door shortly after dinner.

"Severus, what an unpleasant surprise," Harry laughs, ushering the man inside.

"So who did you rape, Potter? A Death Eater, those two nights when you were held captive? The Dark Lord himself? Oh, let me guess, Ronald Weasley? And the poor boy was so desperate to get away from you that he got himself killed," Snape sneers, taunts.

"You just shut up about him," Harry warns, letting Snape know he'd gone too far with a single flash of the eye. No matter how hard Snape tries to belittle Harry's power, there is no denying that the young man is the most powerful wizard alive these days. "You don't have to make me angry, to hurt me, if you want the truth," Harry continues, seeing the small dip of the head as submission.

"What must I give you?" Snape asks.

"Your promise to stop watching me when I cut," Harry answers. "I need this, Severus. I might not always, but I do need it now. It's become a habit, an old friend. My oldest friend."

"Tell me."

So Harry does. He talks for hours, pausing to drink deeply of his glass of wine and to offer Snape some. He talks and Snape listens without interruption. Snape makes a few noises here and there, mostly confined to penetrating, deep breaths, too subtle to be sighs. These come most frequently during the childhood years, as Harry had expected, but the Potions Master also seems concerned, or interested or whatever it is that drives those almost sighs, when Harry explains his genuine sexual awakening during adolescence. The few times that Harry's needy offers to give head to any anonymous boys were accepted. The pain it caused him when rumors of his ineptness spread. The very real pain it caused him when, in a fit of self-hatred, he tried to deep-throat his razor, over and over again, stretching the limits of what he could take. The next few propositions, the begging, the rejection. And then the one time when someone offered to return the favor, a free lesson in technique. Harry had ended up in the hospital wing, unable to stop vomiting. And then there was war and an end to Harry's attempts to please an idea, a myth of an uncle who could forgive him. Snape listens to this until Harry stops talking.

And now it is his turn to speak, but he has no words. He can only see that warm red mouth, and imagine it swallowing and swallowing. The pain he feels for Harry is very real and present, almost concrete, but the picture Harry paints is simply too intriguing for him, so he says goodnight and leaves. Harry understands this. He also knows that he was moments away from offering himself to Snape, but whether this would be out of guilt or gratitude, he does not know. And he does not know if he is sad when Snape leaves him, but he is sorry for something. Sighing in the frustration of uncertainty, Harry takes his new potion and goes to sleep.


	6. 6

Two months go by, without a word between them more personal than hello, and then Snape summons Harry to his rooms.

"Severus?" Harry asks, the shy man's greeting.

"Harry, I have a gift for you," Snape says, pointing to a cauldron simmering over the hearth.

"Polyjuice?" Harry asks, guessing by sight and smell and the foreboding he feels. He sees what is coming but as usual is powerless to stop it. "You've been to see him, haven't you?"

"Yes," Snape answers. "Disguised as a medical technician, last week."

"Don't," Harry whispers, but it is too late. Severus Snape has disappeared, and before Harry stands Vernon Dursley, older and fatter and grayer than the last time he saw him, but essentially the same.

"Harry," Snape begins, and Harry knows that Snape will be playing the role. What role must Harry play? "Harry, I wanted you all those years ago. I would be a fool not to, you are so beautiful. But I was afraid of hurting you."

"You're not him," Harry whispers, but Snape pays him no mind, and Harry briefly hopes that the man has become absorbed by the evil he is portraying. It'll strip them both of blame in the end.

"Harry, I won't hurt you now. And you can't hurt me. We're equals now, except you owe me something. For existing. Your great crime against me, Harry, was being born. But you're an intelligent young man now, I see. You understand that this wasn't your fault. In this one thing, you had no choice. But you can make it up to me. Harry," Snape breathes, "Harry, please suck my cock."

And Harry is on his knees in seconds, crawling towards his uncle, crying, crying, he doesn't want to do this the fucker the fucker he doesn't get to have him!

"Please stop!" Harry cries, trying to get off his knees, but unable to do anything but collapse and curl into himself.

And still Snape goes on. "Harry! Come here now, boy! You owe this to me. You _want_ it. You _need_ it. This is the only chance you'll ever have to make anybody happy," Snape bellows. 

"You son of a bitch," Harry chants. "You son of a bitch."

"Why, Harry?" Snape asks, and this is really Snape, not the role that is nauseating him so. "Why?"

"I didn't do anything to you!" Harry screams, accepting the lie this one time. "I cleaned up after you, I bent over backwards to please you, I fell to my knees to please you, hating you all the time, and all you ever did was yell and scream and bruise and bury me! And throw me away! You threw me away after all I did for you! So you can fucking go to hell!"

Snape retreats into his bedroom, leaving Harry on the floor, as they both wait for the hour to run out. And when it does, Harry is walking into the bedroom, stripping himself with the ease and practice of a thousand dreams, and is devouring Severus Snape in seconds, watching the teeth when he feels like it. But Severus stops him.

"Oh come on," Harry sighs. "You've proven your point. You're not him, just like all those boys weren't him, and I never wanted them to be him anyway. So why can't I finish you off?"

"I want you up here," Severus answers, tapping out S.O.S against his own lips. 

They kiss, they drink each other in, they unite and sigh and sigh again, as Harry allows himself to be made happy. And he is happy with Severus, unconcerned at the idea that this might be only a fleeting healing. He's unconcerned with the certainty that, within the year, the Potions Master will have stopped him from cutting. He's unconcerned with the fact that Severus will not let him fall to his knees for the next few months. He is only worried that Severus doesn't often smile, and that when he looks unhappy, or bored, or angry, Harry is worried at the need he feels to rip himself open to make amends. Harry worries at the ease with which he found himself in Severus's bed. He worries that the very happiness he feels when he is in that bed is exactly the same as the euphoria he felt on Thursday evenings, painting himself with blood. He worries at Severus being so close, the healer and lover. Above all, Harry is concerned by the absence of love, the grand, sweeping love that he has never felt and that Severus says he does not believe in. He tries, some nights, to tell Severus what it is that he feels. A need to protect. A desire to please. A sense, during separation, that separation cannot truly exist between them. A peace with the silence that falls between them at times. A lightness during conversations. A weight in his chest when he cannot help him with a given problem. Harry runs out of words at this point, and Severus will usually respond with an offer of a potion, or drink, or hand job, to cure his ails. And Harry will laugh, and refuse the potion, and smile when Severus laughs and calls him "maddening". And Severus will remind him to take the medicine that will save both of their hearts, and Harry, one day, will stop wondering what this means.

The End J 


End file.
